


The Way (Sherlock-Ordinary) Things Are

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Blood and Violence, Dark, Dark Thoughts, Desperate Sherlock Holmes, How Do I Tag, M/M, POV Alternating, RIP John for putting up with this, Violence, dark impulses, dark!Sherlock, i cannot stress the amount of violence, its simultaneously not that dark?, look i dont know how to explain it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sherlock is high-key not okayJohn made a strangled noise. "That's a bit not good," he managed to say, and Sherlock frowned."Why?" he demanded. "It's only fair that you know what you've gotten yourself into." He leaned forward to the point where John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. "You're mine," he growled. "And so your blood and flesh and brain matter is mine. It would be a sweet gift to be able to kill you.""A bit not good," John said again, stepping back. He sighed, giving in to Sherlock's wants, and that was that.So it was the new ordinary, or perhaps just the new Sherlock-ordinary, since ordinary people and Sherlock had very different definitions of ordinary, as far as John could tell.





	1. Sherlock Ordinary

It was an ordinary case, if ordinary could ever be used to describe Sherlock and John's life. Ordinary is going to work on time and 'forgetting' to do your laundry and eating full meals every day. Ordinary is not going to work late because you stayed up all night with Sherlock tracking a serial killer, or forgetting to do your laundry because you stayed at the morgue examining dead bodies or not eating a full meal because you're staking out a serial killer's home and Sherlock thinks eating is dull.

What made even more unordinary was that John was bleeding. The serial killer had a knife, and slashed at his arm and now John will need three stitches. He does them himself in his living room while Sherlock lurked in the kitchen.

Suddenly, Sherlock spoke up.

"How dare he," his tone was casual, maybe contained a hint of annoyance. John looked up from where he was finishing wrapping up his arm.

"Excuse me?"

"How dare he make you bleed," Sherlock stated, and John opened his mouth but Sherlock continued. "Only I should be able to make you bleed." John's mouth clicked shut. this wasn't an ordinary thing to say, or Sherlock-ordinary. John didn't do the ordinary thing either, which was to run away, or the John-ordinary thing, which would be assuming Sherlock to be a threat. but Sherlock wasn't a threat, and Sherlock had never made him bleed before. He voiced this fact out loud, and Sherlock frowned, angry. "It isn't possible to make you bleed without hurting you." John blinked, and opened his mouth without thinking.

"You know sedatives exist, right?" Sherlock glared at him from the other room, standing up, and only now did John realize that he may have made a mistake.

"I would want you to have full mental capacities when I shred your flesh and tear apart your bones." John looked at the taller man in surprise.

"What?" he asked numbly. Sherlock huffs, frustrated.

"They say love is watching someone die."

"Since when have people said that?" John asks, confounded, (because ordinary people don't say that, and he's pretty sure Sherlock-ordinary people he's met have never mentioned love as anything other than a distraction-) before his brain catches up. "Wait, are you saying-"

"Don't make me actually say it," Sherlock breathes, looking less angry and more desperate and unbearably sad, and john is up and wrapping his arms around him before he can think, because Sherlock isn't a threat in his mind, he trusts Sherlock, even when he can't process his own emotions.

"You love me?" John breathes, feeling so special and his tone comes out a little disbelievingly, and Sherlock looks furious with himself and John simultaneously.

"I will shred your flesh and steal your bones if you think for one second that I do not love you." Sherlock snarls immediately, and now the man is on a roll, always a drama queen. "I will not stop loving you. You can not die unless I said you could, and that would be because I had killed you myself." He widens his eyes as if he hadn't meant to say that, but John finds himself focusing on the way the word 'love' leaves Sherlock's lips, as if it were forcibly ripped out of his throat. "But then it will be me who tears off your skin and cracks open your ribcage so I can shove my hand deep into your chest and force your heart to keep pumping."

John stared up at his face, and saw anger and desperation and sadness and something dark, but mostly love. And John loved this dark-haired detective and so he breathed quietly and whispered, "I love you too."

It was as if someone had cut string off of Sherlock, and Sherlock was merely a puppet. He sagged against John's shoulder and began to cry.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he whines, and John hums soothingly. He's pretty sure he's got a fair idea.


	2. Sherlock-Unordinary

Sherlock catches himself whispering words he doesn't dare say to John just yet as he works in the morgue by himself. John is at work and Molly isn't there, so he has the whole room to himself. Speaking out-loud is Sherlock-ordinary, except the words he dares to say are not Sherlock-ordinary to say out loud.

"I will kiss you and taste your tongue and rip your lips off with my teeth so I can test your blood and so no one will ever kiss you again except me, but I don't need you to have lips because you're intoxicating, and I have to ruin that so no one else will love you they way I do." His breathing speeds up, and he can feel the desperation on his tongue like iron, like blood, except this is silly, and unordinary, not even Sherlock-ordinary, because these are just words, not even spoken to John, no one can hear them except Sherlock. And yet: "You're not allowed to love more than me, you're not allowed to say I love you more than me, if you spill your tea on your sweater I will lick it clean," he breathes, and suddenly he wants to watch john spill hot tea on his sweater, he wants to lick it clean, he wants to help john is he gets burnt by the hot tea, and wants to grow old and watch John drink tea and spill it with old shaky hands, he wants to see John have to buy new sweaters when he's eighty because all of his old ones have tea stains, he wants-

Sherlock pinches the inside of his arm. It doesn't bode well that he's fantasizing while he's working. Love really is a distraction but Sherlock can't find it in him to care.

He lays in bed and at 3 a.m. exactly, when he knows John is deep in slumber and won't wake up, he imagines.

He imagines John loving him and letting him do whatever he wanted. He would grab John and take everything from him until there was nothing left but a black hole, except the black hole would also be Sherlock.

Does his fingernails dig in John’s arm to the point of blood? Blood, which he would taste? Taste and memorize the taste, because he would never make John bleed again? Except that he would, oh how he would crave to see John hurt, except not in pain? No one can dare harm John except him, so if he wants John to bleed, he must do it himself even if the thought of harming John repulses him and yet fills him with excitement.

Sherlock caught himself wondering one night how John’s brain would taste. If it was cooked while still very fresh, straight from his lover’s body, it would taste delightful, creamy and yet firm, flavorful and yet just the standard fat brains are mainly made of. Except John isn’t standard, and so he would taste so delightful.

_All love is the same. Why can’t we kiss people platonically on the mouth why can’t we kiss them and hug them and sleep in their beds platonically, why is there no blurred line between these shades of love, except that there is and no one acknowledges it? _

_If a friend tells me that they love me, I feel like they don't say it the way I say it, mean it the way I mean it except that they could, except that I get frustrated and mad because I mean it so much more, I have to mean it more, they can't love me more than I love them except maybe they do, but they don’t know if I mean it the way they mean it, maybe we’re just reflecting each others views at each other, thinking no one can love this much except me, no one knows what I feel like except me-_

Sherlock buries his head in his hands and cries. It wasn't like John could hear it, John who was visiting his sister, John who wasn't in Sherlock's room, John who couldn't possibly understand except he tried, and sometimes that's all Sherlock needs.

Sherlock lays on his bed and cries so softly and quietly he can almost pretend John's in the other room, listening and understanding.


	3. John-Ordinary

John made a strangled noise. "That's a bit not good," he managed to say, and Sherlock frowned.

"Why?" he demanded. "It's only fair that you know what you've gotten yourself into." He leaned forward to the point where John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. "You're mine," he growled. "And so your blood and flesh and brain matter is mine. It would be a sweet gift to be able to kill you."

"So you want me to die?" John asked incredulously, and Sherlock snarled.

"Of course not. If you die then I'll rip you to shreds and sew you back together. I will keep your heart pumping and your lungs breathing even if it means I shove my arm into your chest. It'd be a delight, to feel your heart flutter in the palm of my hand."

"A bit not good," John said again, stepping back. He sighed, giving in to his wants. "As long as you're mine back," he said, and Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"Of course," he said, and that was that.

So this was the new ordinary, John supposed. Or at least the new Sherlock-ordinary. Possibly the new John-ordinary.


	4. John-Unordinary

"I love you," Sherlock managed to say through the razor blades in his chest and the tight grip in his throat. The words were smooth and uninterrupted, much to his surprise. John looked up from his spot in the kitchen, and his eyes softened. A fond smile danced on the shorter man's lips.

"I love you too," he chuckled casually, and turned away, presumably to make some tea.

How dare he. How dare he! How could he say those words so casually, as if he didn't know the effect his words had on Sherlock! How dare he be able to speak those three words so fluidly, so casually, so relaxed, as if Sherlock hadn't be choking on the thought of saying, or dying in his attempt to tell John?!

With a cry of rage, Sherlock pounced. He slammed John against the wall, fingertips digging into John's arms as the sweater covered man let out a cry of shock. Sherlock didn't hesitate, slamming his mouth against John's so hard their teeth clicked together painfully and his own mouth smarted with pain. He didn't let up, kissing with a bruising intensity as John clutched his arms as if he was going to push Sherlock back. He snarled into the kiss at that thought, teeth scraping John's lips as he pressed John harder into the wall.

Sherlock was alit with fury and love. A calculated kick to the back of John's already crumpling knee sent the shorter man to the floor, Sherlock sinking down as well as he refused to stop kissing John. His grip on John's arms was tight, too tight, his fingernails digging into John's arms in a way that made John whimper in pain into the kiss. Sherlock immediately loosened his grip and pulled back for breath, his anger halted by an unyielding wall of remorse. He hadn't meant to hurt John. Or rather, he had, but not wanted John to feel pain. He cursed himself for his own stupidity. How could he hurt John without John feeling pain? He had to apologize.

The apology came like this:

His grip tight, but not as tight, and on a different part of John's arms as to not hurt him further. Sherlock's knee came forward to rub John through his pants, which made his gasp into the kiss.

"Sherlock," John gasped when Sherlock pulled away for air. "Sherlock, what the hell-?"

Sherlock pressed their mouths together furiously. He wished they never had to breathe at all, that pausing to breathe wasn't a natural instinct so that they might fall unconscious from the lack of air, their lips still locked together. Maybe they could die that way, he mused. Maybe they could die because of Sherlock, and the police would find their bodies and be so horribly confused without Sherlock's help, that Mycroft would order an autopsy because he would never believe Sherlock would fall prey to emotions, that something must have happened, some drug or poison had been slipped into his drink. The autopsy would show nothing, and they would do one fo John's as well.

He snarled, anger growing again, at the thought of someone putting their hands on John's flesh, in his dead body. Only he would be allowed to do that, Sherlock decided. He'd have to kill John first into some sweet and slow way that would involve all sorts of sharp objects, and continue ripping John into pieces long after he had bled out. Not a single drop would touch the floor, of course, all of it would be carefully collected, something to be prized. The sound of John’s cracking bones and cartilage would be fantastic, Sherlock imagined. The smell of his blood, the taste of his brain matter, even the sensation of running his hands in between the third and fourth rib to get to John’s heart would be fantastic. Sherlock would sink his knife, careful not to damage a single organ. Sherlock could practically see himself wielding a knife like an extension of his arm, and separate joints with subtle twists of his wrist. Oh, how John would come undone! His screams would haunt Sherlock’s sweetest dreams and deepest nightmares.

After, he would hide his body so well that no one would ever find it, not for a thousand years. He would come back after the flesh decomposed, and he would break the bones into shards so small that the archaeologists in the future (for those would be the only ones who would find John's body, he would make sure of it) would have no idea what they were looking at. Or perhaps he'd grind John's bones to dust, so that they couldn't even touch the shards, and Sherlock would put the dust in his tea, made just how John makes it, and he would eat all that was left of John so no one could touch John except him.

Since this is the new ordinary, who's going to stop him? Sherlock wonders, and a little thrill runs down his spine.


End file.
